


Magnetism

by Tarvok



Series: Dailies With Sherlock Holmes [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Asexual Sherlock, Asexuality, Asperger's Sherlock, Blood and Injury, Character Study, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M, POV John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 03:15:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarvok/pseuds/Tarvok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Both poles are equally attracted to the other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Magnetism

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by some cheeseburgers I was making the other morning for breakfast, and a marathon of Sherlock eps on Amazon.

Magnetism

By Tarvok

Rated G. Asexual M/M. Aspie Sherlock. Character study. Sherlock TV.

  

“I'm making burgers for lunch. Would you like cheese on yours, Sherlock?” I look over toward the crowded table and he's just sitting there staring off into space. I clear my throat and try again. “Just tell me if you don't want cheese, otherwise you're getting it.”

He grunts and turns toward me, a slightly confused look on his face. “Cheese? Cheese is fine.”

I go back to frying the patties and trying not to laugh at how this time he somehow managed to wear _my_ bed sheet to the breakfast table. Well, _his_ breakfast anyway. It's hard enough getting him to sleep or eat, so I'm not complaining when he finally seems to be doing both. I marvel at how he's managed to maneuver his way even further into my life.

I reflect on just what happened last night as I start adding some sea salt and ground black pepper to the seared patties. I'd had a long day at work, and wasn't feeling the greatest. I'd hoped to get to bed early when I heard a crash downstairs and a rather loud, “Shit!” I got up and headed downstairs to see what the ruckus was about, and stopped Mrs. Hudson who was on her way to see the commotion.

“Sherlock? What happened?” I enter the room and there's this platter of... something on the floor and Sherlock looks like he got bitten or burned or cut by something, if how he's holding his right hand is any indication. I approach to get a look and that's when I see his face. “Sherlock?” I notice there's blood dripping between his fingers.

He won't look at me or say anything. I ignore that and go to grab a towel from the kitchen. By the time I get back over to him to wrap up his hand and check if he needs stitches, he's sitting on the floor taking these odd hitching breaths. I imagine he's in not a small bit of pain, so I hurry and check out the wound. It isn't deep, but it doesn't look comfortable. I wrap his hand and go get my med-kit from the desk, along with the single-dose morphine shot I keep in there for emergencies like this. I take care of everything and move to clean up the mess on the floor. There's shattered tea cups and a broken kettle has spilled it's contents all over the place, leaving a soggy dark stain behind.

I turn to look at Sherlock and he's looking away from me. Things have been strange here lately, with him trying to do things like this. Like make tea or coffee or do the wash. He has no idea how to do any of these things and won't ask to be shown. It ends up like this sometimes, and afterwards, he won't look at me or talk to me or anything. It took me too long to realise he's embarrassed and ashamed at these failures. I was grateful I'd picked up on it this time. Mrs. Hudson means well, but she fusses and I've noticed that makes it worse.

I throw away the broken china and put a towel over the stain. Then I crawl over to where Sherlock's just sitting, staring a hole in the sofa across the room. “Hey.” He won't look at me. I won't have it. “Sherlock. The first time I made tea, I was five. It was with my grandmother's best set. I broke it; spilled it everywhere. She was the only person who wasn't steaming mad at me. Harry laughed and laughed like it was the best thing in the world, while I got screamed at and belted.”

Sherlock's looking at me now, a sad look in his eyes. I've noticed a lot of those lately, too, every time I relate some childhood trauma to him. I wasn't ever going to tell him these things, but after that talk I had with Mycroft... he's got some of his own. I think these talks, however one-sided, help him.

“I got so mad, I hauled off and punched her in the face. I hadn't even pulled up my britches. Got beat more for that than for breaking the china.” He's smiling now, but not looking at me anymore. “My point, Sherlock, is this is cheap, shitty porcelain. Break all the cups if you want. Flood downstairs with wash soap. Mrs. Hudson has done worse, I'm sure. Hell, burn the place down trying to bake something. It's fine. This just proves you're human like the rest of us, albeit still some arrogant, self-righteous prick of a bastard, but human nonetheless.” The smile becomes a bit wider and I've got him looking at me again.

“I was trying to be helpful.”

“You don't have to try so hard. You're helpful just being around.”

“You'd be the only idiot who thinks that.”

“Well, that's because this idiot loves the stinking ninny sitting on the soggy floor next to him.” I grin and try not to laugh at the look that crosses his face.

“I told you I'm married to my work, John.”

“Yeah, and I'm married to your work too, in case you haven't noticed.” I stretch my legs out on the floor, careful to miss the puddle that's going to have Mrs. Hudson in a right mood in the morning.

“I... hadn't noticed.” I can't tell if he's being sarcastic or not, but I figure it doesn't matter.

“Now,” I slowly get up and dust off my trousers. “I'd imagine that shot is gonna knock you out, even low as the dose was. Let's get you to bed.” He actually takes my hand with his good left one, and stands up. He won't follow me to his room, though, and I remember what a mess it is. I shrug and lead him upstairs to my room.

Once there, I tidy the place up some, pick up some socks, throw a shirt in the bin. Sherlock's just standing there, his eyes following my every move. It took some getting used to, but I find I don't mind when those fair eyes of his latch onto me from time to time. Even if I can't hide anything from that point onward. After a while I found it peaceful to not have to hide anything.

“Well, I suppose you can sleep it off in here... I'm gonna need to sleep, though. So I'll take the sofa-”

“We can share.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” Sherlock moves to take off his dressing gown, which I notice is stained with tea, and his trousers. He leaves his tee and boxers on, and climbs into the bed, pulling the covers up to his chin. 

“I don't...” I sigh. “Fine. Whatever. Heat's broke anyway.”

“Whatever excuse you need, John.” He sounds as bored as ever. I take my time getting undressed, and in the back of my mind, I hope Mrs. Hudson doesn't just walk in tomorrow morning like she does sometimes. At that thought, I go and lock the door, then climb in on Sherlock's other side. At least he let me have my side. It doesn't take long for me to fall asleep.

I wake up around 5:00 AM. Not my ideal time, but old habits are hard to break. It's warm, too warm, and I idly wonder how the repairman could have gotten here so early. Then I remember I'm not alone. I try to move around a bit, and bump into someone right behind me. Very much right behind me; I'm about to fall off the bed. I manage to wriggle around to my backside and there's Sherlock – snuggled into a tight ball to my right side, the fingers of his injured right hand fisted into the blanket at my back. His breathing is coming in little, relaxed puffs, and I can't help but chuckle a bit at the sight.

“Jo...hn?” He shifts and opens one bleary eye.

“Sorry. Didn't mean to wake you,” I whisper.

“Time?”

“About five in the morning.”

“Urhn...” He curls tighter into the blankets and his hand moves to grabs into the fabric at my right shoulder. 

“Sherlock? You have ahold of me.” He just mumbles something I can't understand and relaxes his fingers. He doesn't remove his hand from me.

I lay there, looking at him and his wayward hand. It's warm. For some reason I never thought Sherlock would be warm like this. We've held hands before, but never in a casual situation... though is this casual? We're in the same bed and he's got his hand just... laying on that spot between my neck and shoulder. Every so often there's a twitch of his fingers and I try not to move away from the ticklish sensation.

I roll over to face him. “Sherlock?” His hand follows and now it's resting on my left bicep. I know he's awake. “Sherlock, look at me.” He cracks open the eye not stuffed into the pillow. My pillow, now that I've noticed. “What are you doing?”

He takes his time in answering. “It's simple magnetism, John.”

“What?”

“Are you familiar with the theory of magnetism?”

“It's really hard to get the same poles to stick?”

“Or the opposite to separate,” he yawns, and bundles himself even further into the blankets by sliding down the bed a bit. He takes his hand away from my arm, and tucks it under the covers. “I'm sleepy, John. Go to sleep or be quiet.” I can't believe he can still sound so smug bundled into _my_ blankets and with _bed-head_. Regardless, I stay there for a few minutes more wondering why I was missing his hand on my arm.

“Here they are, Sherlock.” I lay two pan-fried organic beef patties, with cheese, in buns, on the little bit of space that was available on the table in front of him. He finally comes back from wherever he's been the past few minutes, and pokes at one.

“Extra pepper?”

“Yes. So much they're nearly black.” I grab one for me, and some zesty chips I fried up last night and reheated a minute ago, and sit to his left. 

“John?” 

“Yeah?” I mumble out through a mouth full of food.

“Which one of us is 'north' or 'south'?”

It takes me a minute to get what he's saying. “Well, I dunno. Does it matter since both poles are equally attracted to the other?”

He's taken a few bites, and after a bit of chewing, “I suppose not.”


End file.
